the five poems I turned in for my creative writing class
november.
when the rain bites down
and the puddles dance
remember what you said --
the grey clouds reflected in your eyes;
the lightning in your voice,
scratchy from thunderous volumes;
fists curled
eight crescent moons mark your palms.
"you're not worth this."
then why
are you trembling?
dust.
he sits in a cafe, tucked away on a dusty corner with
the Eiffel Tower visible if he strains his neck to the left.
but his concern focuses to the right, just in his peripheral vision,
calmly sipping on a mocha latte,
pointedly refusing to pay attention to the black cat that has just sat on her
Prada purse, the one he'd given her
for their tenth anniversary.
His thoughts drift idly toward
the man she's meeting
and if he's given her things that have cost half his monthly paycheck also,
and then wonders how many colours she'll turn before
his hands around her throat
get
tired.
eight hour shifts.
the intercom sparks,
managers hand me long lists;
spring breezes beckon.
stop hiding.
she laughs too loud, her smoke rings encircling the man she's nearly standing on,
lipstick on her teeth, blue eyeshadow up to her brows;
her tongue wraps around the cherry adorning her brightly coloured drink,
condescendingly eyeing the thighs of the waitress who concocted it.
without warning, the glass slips and her arm latches around a leering stranger's waist,
and she stumbles in her stilettos from the room.
she won't find what she's looking for.
august.
flames are brushing the clouds,
the logs splintering as they blacken.
the sun is beginning to wake,
and the stars are falling from the sky,
sprinkling themselves across your eyes.
i fall down beside you, the sand cradling me,
and watch the night sky wane.
brushing my finger against your wrist, i flash you a hesitant smile;
you don't return it, but then, you never had to.